


Always Falling Forward

by entanglednow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-08
Updated: 2010-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 12:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/149174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are so many things Castiel could teach him. But some of the lessons are harder than others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Falling Forward

Dean's tried waiting for sleep to come to him, and he's tried chasing it down. Neither of them have worked for him so far. It's a fight that's doing nothing but leaving him frustrated and more restless than before. Knowing he has to get at least four hours sleep out of twenty four to be somewhere even close to his best, that makes no difference at all. His body's currently refusing to cooperate, tense and uncomfortable on a mattress that's too soft, too hard, too cold. It's like shifting degrees of madness.

Sam's still moving about in the room next door, Dean can hear the faint sound of footsteps crossing the floor every so often. The creak of a chair and the occasional rush of water from a faucet. He doesn't have a clue what Sam's doing in there, he hasn't bothered to ask. Part of him hates that - even more of him hates how much that it worries him. That creeping sense of apathy.

Dean can't even imagine not sleeping for a year. He'd have gone fucking mad after the first month. He remembers what it was like the first few weeks back from hell. When he'd been so fucking terrified to sleep he could barely breathe. But he'd slept, he'd had to sleep, snatches here and there, that often left him worse off than before. Because it would have been madness not to. Not sleeping for a year, people didn't do that, and he doesn't want to put Sam into any category that isn't 'people.' He refuses to. He'll go to extreme lengths not to do that, which is stupid, and dangerous and he knows it.

Dean turns his head and looks at the neat, empty bed on the other side of the room. Where Sam would usually be loud but still as the dead, arms spread out either side of him, like he'd tried to brace himself before falling into nothing. Dean wishes he was there right now.

He rolls over, for what feels like the hundredth time - Castiel's sat on the other side of the bed.

"We really need to get you a hobby," Dean breathes into the dark, half irritated and half strangely relieved for the excuse to push himself up onto his elbows.

"You're not sleeping," Castiel says. Like that hadn't been obvious.

"Not even close," Dean's voice comes out tight and hard. He sits up, rubs a hand across the back of his neck, then throws his arms over his knees. "Not for want of trying though, believe me."

Castiel turns a little to face him more fully, the edge of his coat rustling against the sheets. One hand is on his own knee and the other is curled on the sheet, as if paused in the act of reaching out. Maybe to wake him.

"Crowley's intention to find Purgatory may have far-reaching consequences, for all of us."

Dean sighs, all tiredness long forgotten. Because, of course, it's always something. Sometimes it feels like the only one in the whole world who needs to sleep is him.

"Yeah, I know that tone of voice, that's your 'there's all sorts of confusing bullshit going on here that I'm not going to explain to you right now,' voice."

Castiel simply looks at him, like he doesn't know how to answer that.

"I would explain it to you if I fully understood it myself," he says eventually.

"You think he'll get it out of one of the Alphas?" Dean asks.

There's more tense unhappiness in Castiel's forehead than Dean knows what to do with right now.

"It seems safe to assume that he will, eventually."

Something else nasty occurs to Dean. "Would he be able to torture it out of an angel?"

The expression on Castiel's face is unreadable. Which Dean figures can't be good.

"So apart from telling me that we may possibly be in even deeper shit than usual - and hell I don't even know what usual is for us any more - apart from that. Did you come here for any reason in particular? You don't exactly just show up for a chat any more. It's getting to the stage where you only show up when people are getting their heads eaten out by bugs, or being turned to salt. Not that I don't like to see you, really. But I get the feeling it'd be quicker if we got the whole 'we're all screwed' conversation over with quicker and I started immediately arming up for war every time you show up."

Castiel frowns, and that's the face of someone who knows exactly what guilt is, and is currently feeling it to the best of his ability. And, yeah, Dean might have been a little harsh there. He sighs and shoves his hair all the wrong way, pulls his hand down his face.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, it's not just you. We've both been dicks about only picking up the phone when we want something."

"You mentioned once wanting to learn to protect yourself, to defend yourself, against angels and other creatures. I thought this would be a good time," Castiel says quietly.

Dean tilts his head, confused and not quite believing it. "I thought you had like a million things to do. I figured you'd forgotten all about that."

"I don't forget anything," Castiel reminds him. "You were...upset that I only came when I wanted something. I don't want you to feel like that."

Just like that Dean feels guilty. Because of course Castiel is going to make the effort before it even occurs to him.

"I know you're busy, Cas," he says quietly. "I know there's important stuff going on up there and that you're in the middle of it. I don't expect you to show up for every little thing that puts a bug up my ass. I expect you to ignore the hell out of me when I'm being a dick - and don't tell anyone I said that, ok.  I just - it's hard to see past your own bullshit, y'know. But you can't be expected - I don't expect you to make time for me every time I ask."

"I have time for you." It's the same flat tone Castiel normally uses but Dean thinks maybe there's a faint touch of hope there. Castiel wants to be here, wants to teach him. He doesn't look like he's doing this out of some sort of obligation. He looks like he actually wants Dean to come with him, even if he isn't quite certain how to make it happen. But hell, Dean does, he really, really does. Not just because the last time Cas had taught him anything it had felt like he was actually doing something useful for a change. In fact Dean thinks he's spent the last few days waiting for something. Not just because he wants to get away - to get out for a few hours. He's just been waiting for _something._

Dean nods. "Let me find some pants." He kicks the sheets away, slithers to his feet and finds out where he dropped his jeans and boots. One of them goes skidding across the carpet while he's stamping his way into the other. He can still hear Sam moving about next door. But Dean's pretty sure he's not going to come out and ask where Dean's going. He thinks maybe Castiel will have had something to do with that. He just doesn't need Sam's questions about why he's sneaking out in the middle of the night right now. Not that he's sneaking out. Though, screw it, considering how long Sam spent cutting out on him Dean's owed some time of his own. He'll tell Sam what he's doing, but he'll tell him in his own damn time.

"There's a couple of empty rooms the other way," Dean says, because he's been noticing these things for so long he doesn't even think about it any more. And on pretty much anyone else that would be a come on. Pretty much anyone else would at least notice the double meaning underneath it.

The angel remains oblivious - or chooses to pretend to remain oblivious. He's recently been learning all about the phrase 'baiting.'

"We'll need to go somewhere with more room," Castiel says carefully, eyeing the floor like he's already judged it and found it wanting.

"Are we going to be wrestling?" Dean's joking, half joking, he doesn't seriously expect there to be any dramatic human/angel smackdown. Though if he could do this whole thing in a training montage with awesome background music that would be just fine with him. Yeah, he's fairly sure it's going to be a lot more work than that. But hard work he can take.

Castiel smiles, just a little. "Very unlikely, but we'll need space to draw out some of the larger symbols."

Dean twists his head round, to look at the other bed. Where Sam would usually be, where he'd spent so long expecting him to be. With his face half squashed into the pillow, drooling with his mouth open, a weird little frown creasing his forehead like he's trying to work out some difficult problem in his sleep. For a fraction of a second Dean's years back. Before Lisa, before hell, before Castiel. He's just thinking about Sam, gigantic, gullible Sam looking like an idiot five feet away. And then it's gone and it just fucking hurts - Dean looks away.

"Sam, gonna be ok while we're gone?" It's out before he even knows exactly what he means by that. Before he knows whether Sam will be ok anywhere.

"We won't go far," Castiel promises.

He lays his hand on Dean's shoulder and they're -

\- somewhere else.

Dean slams his eyes shut, because it's a lot brighter here than where he was before. When he can see again he finds them both in a plain, mostly empty, basement. Damp grey walls, a dusty floor, and the half-smear of dirty glass to the right where the small window leads outside. A bare bulb swings above them, encouraged into motion by their entrance.

"So where are we?" he asks.

"A basement approximately seventy miles from the motel."

"You should really work on your definition of 'not far' you know that right?" Dean complains.

He walks the length of it, boots hollow and loud on the stone.

"This is a big space," Dean says, voice dubious. Because seriously you could park a couple of trucks in here. Or put in a pool. Not that Dean could ever entirely trust someone who'd put a pool in their basement.

"It's sufficient for our purpose," Castiel tells him. Which is good, Dean guesses, though he'd quite like to know what their purpose was. Him and surprises have a bad history.

"They're not going to come back and find us hanging out here right?" Dean asks, kicking at a loose part of the wall.

"No." Castiel's still moving somewhere behind him, shiny shoes tapping on concrete.

"They on vacation?"

"They're dead," Castiel says simply, and the basement manages to be a lot colder and more depressing than it was a moment ago.

"Way to ruin the mood," Dean mutters.

Castiel slides his hand out of his pocket, producing several long sticks of chalk.

"So that isn't just a display model after all." Dean can't help it. Because Castiel may have gotten a promotion and forgotten everything Dean taught him but underneath everything he's still _Castiel_. The angel looks confused, but that's nothing new. Considering how old he's supposed to be, it's honestly surprising the amount of things that can put that expression on his face. Dean knows he's had a pretty...unique life, but really he's not that much weirder than most people.

Dean gestures, and he can't help the grin. "Your pockets work."

"Why wouldn't they?" The confusion's sharp and obvious now.

Dean shakes his head, can't help it. Because Castiel can drag a smile out of him far too easily. A stupid-ass, dumb sort of smile just by being him. "Dude, never mind, what are we doing tonight?"

Castiel takes two steps, close enough to reach out a hand and touch him, but no further. It's a careful distance, something that always feels thought out. As if Castiel always wants to come closer and has to remind himself not to. He tends to only ignore their personal space conversations when he's making a point. Dean figures that's a lesson he learned all on his own. Getting up in someone's face on purpose and not by accident. But he always looks like he wants to, that focused intent always somewhere there behind his eyes.

"Tonight I believe you should practice warding against angels."

"That sounds like something I can get behind." Dean shoves his sleeves up.

Castiel holds the chalk like he'd be just as happy to kill someone with it as to draw on the walls. Dean thinks he'd kind of missed that quiet, serious air of menace when Cas was taking his human vacation. He'd missed a lot of things then.

"The symbol, drawn on or before the entrance is supposed to bar an angel from entering," Castiel explains.

"Supposed to?"

"A group of angels, or an Archangel would be able to walk through it, but just one or two would have...difficulties."

"Just difficulties?" Dean asks, because the idea of giving angels 'difficulties' sounds kind of weak.

"An angel could do the spell flawlessly. But humans find it hard to be insistent. Human minds are very rarely focused enough, or strong enough to accomplish anything impenetrable."

Dean snorts. "Gee, thanks for the vote of species confidence there."

"I was merely stating a fact," Castiel says carefully. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm just messing with you." Dean slips one of the sticks of chalk out of his hand. "Show me how to do it."

Castiel crosses the room, brushes dust off the wall with the palm of his hand

"You should draw it on the floor here, before the door to the stairs. Entrances and exits to buildings have meaning."

"You're going to stand on the other side and test my work aren't you?" Dean says. He hasn't had a quiz for years. In his line of work shit either works or it doesn't. You find out the hard way, in the middle of the damn fight.

"It would be pointless if I didn't," Castiel isn't even trying not to sound amused now. Dean thinks he could get used to that. He's missed Castiel finding things funny. No matter what he seems to think, angel humour - really not funny.

"Okay, so what does it look like?"

Castiel takes two steps towards the stone wall and traces the symbols into the plaster, the wall goes dark under his fingers. But it doesn't run like water. It stays perfectly precise.

"That's a neat trick."

"Be careful with its symmetry, it's important," Castiel says. Then he crosses the floor again and goes up two of the basement steps. Before encouraging Dean to try.

Dean goes down on one knee, brushes his dusty hand on the thigh of his jeans and copies the symbol out, chalk lines careful and exact. The symbols either side of the circle are complicated mirror images of each other. He has to keep looking to check that each curve is in the right place.

"I'm never going to remember this," he complains, shifting his knee to fit in what looks like an inverted spear.

"You'd be surprised how quickly they become familiar," Castiel's shiny-ass shoes shift on the steps and Dean's tempted to put chalk all over them just for the hell of it.

"This is stronger drawn out in your own blood," Castiel tells him, voice a soft drone over his head. "But it's unnecessary for our purposes."

"This is a pretty big symbol I'm not sure I'd have enough blood to cover the back door and the front door." Dean stands, brushes chalk off his hand, ignores the dirty great handprint he's left on the knee of his jeans.

"So, what's this going to feel like for you?"

Castiel looks surprised at the question. "Entering somewhere that's warded against you is...unpleasant."

"Unpleasant how?" Dean's curiosity is genuine. Sometimes it's not enough to know that things work. You need to know why. You need to be flexible. If you can't think on your feet and fix things then you're a shitty hunter.

Castiel shakes his head. "I'm not sure I could convey it in a way you'd understand."

Dean bites back what he wants to say, there's no mockery, just confused apology behind Castiel's words.

"Take a stab at it."

Castiel looks away, frowns ever so slightly, as if he trying to remember the sensation.

"There's a sense of pressure, of being...restrained, squeezed, not diminished or reduced but contained in a smaller space than before. A sense of being slowed down." Castiel frowns, as if he isn't sure of his own explanation, floundering for words that don't exist, or haven't been invented yet.

"It sounds like suffocating," Dean says quietly.

"The comparison is inexact," Castiel says immediately. "There's no fear of death."

"It still doesn't sound good."

Dean steps back, gestures at the symbol he's left on the floor.

Castiel pushes the edge of his coat out of the way like it might catch on fire or something equally dramatic, before slowly coming down the last two steps. He looks at the symbol Dean's drawn and Dean can't tell by his expression whether he's impressed or amused, or completely indifferent.

Dean takes two more steps back.

Castiel takes another step forward, which leaves his shoes on the edge of the spell, shiny leather just touching chalk dust. There's a pause, as if Castiel's considering, and then he takes another step. Dean's honestly not expecting anything dramatic to happen, he's not expecting Castiel to explode, but he's still a little - a lot - disappointed when absolutely nothing happens. He doesn't even bother to hide his expression.

"Well that was incredibly underwhelming." Dean's half a second away from throwing the chalk down in disgust before he stops himself, strangles it in his hand instead.

Castiel's shoes shift, smudging the edges of his artistry.

"I can feel it," Castiel tells him. "A tugging sensation at the edges."

"So I can mildly inconvenience angels," Dean says sarcastically. "That's good to know."

Castiel reaches down, curls a hand round Dean's shoulder, an easy weight that's almost certainly trying to be sympathetic. "Expecting success on your first attempt doesn't automatically grant you success. I know you perform well under pressure but there's something to be said for practice also."

Dean sighs. "That's why we're doing this right."

Castiel's hand very slowly slides free, drops to his side, and he steps out of the circle.

Dean glares at the smudges. "Could I make it stronger? More focused."

"You could draw it in blood instead, yours, or mine."

"Because I'd feel so incredibly comfortable with that." Dean can't help but point out.

"It might be wise practising its shape in different mediums, I've observed your admirable ability to work with whatever you have at hand."

Dean raises an eyebrow at him. "Did you just give me homework?"

Castiel smiles. "Think of it more as being prepared."

"You're sneakier than you look, you know that?"

Castiel tips his head forward, Dean's strangely tempted to dump chalk down the back of his neck.

"So what am I doing now?"

Castiel moves to the back wall and Dean follows without having to be told.

"I want you to draw out the banishment symbol, exactly how you would if you needed it."

"You want me to draw it in blood?" Dean asks.

"It would be preferable, if necessary you can use mine."

Dean drags his knife out of his boot, flips it open.

"It's weird when you offer stuff like that, you know that right?" he tells the angel. Though he's not all that happy about going back to the motel cut up. He kind of figured it might happen though. He never expected them to be sat around here braiding each other's hair.

He picks the edge of his smallest finger, a line where it won't look weird and it won't rub on anything, then finds a spot on the wall that's less dusty and more flat than the rest.

"I'll probably get some sort of mould infection."

"I promise you won't," Castiel says, and Dean really should tell him that his joking voice and his deadly serious voice sound exactly the same. He needs to work on that.

"I'm holding you to that." He draws out the symbols, pale, thin lines of red, just enough that it's familiar, that he can do it without thinking, smooth quick movements he can make even quicker later. "There, done, now what?"

"You're going to banish me," Castiel says matter-of-factly.

Dean raises both eyebrows, looks at the symbol he's just drawn on the wall, still trailing fine lines of blood, and then he looks at Castiel.

"You're kidding?"

"No," Castiel says simply.

"Cas, I'm not going to practice this on you."

"The symbol has many complex variations. I'm an angel, and sometimes you're going to be fighting angels, I strongly doubt one of the others will give you the time to let you get it right."

"So you're going to give me a chance to get it wrong?"

"Better here than where a mistake could cost you."

Dean's still not happy. Castiel's not even fidgeting, wrapped in his tan coat wearing that half-lost expression that makes him look like a strong wind might blow him over. He's not exactly threatening. For all that Dean has some idea of how powerful he is. More than he used to be.

"Dean, you don't have to worry about me." Castiel's voice has dropped to something low and soft. There's still that surprise, like no one has ever worried about him before and he still finds it bewildering and strangely touching.

Dean pokes at the wall and doesn't look at him, for no good reason, other than Castiel can be pretty damn intent sometimes.

"Yeah, I do, because I'll have my amateur hands all over this and I don't want to fuck you up by accident."

"You won't," Castiel says simply, and Dean honestly doesn't know whether that's faith in him, or amusement for thinking he even could. He decides it's the second.

"Oh, so now you're badass?"

The symbol on the wall looks almost harmless, it's just markings, it's just symbols on the stone, darker in some places than others where Dean's finger-painting wasn't exact, smears and uneven lines, drawn loose enough that it almost looks like some sort of edgy, gothic artwork. But Dean knows it's not harmless, knows like a tug in the gut and cold sweat across the back of his neck. Like footsteps on the stairs and breathing under the floor. It's just something he knows, the hectic splash of wrongness where anyone else would see random. He knows the power of symbols. He's spent his whole life looking for them, researching them, using them when he has to, knowing when to avoid them. He likes to think he knows when they feel - like they could take your damn head off. And though he doesn't have a clue what this feels like he's seen it done twice and he's damn sure it's not nice.

Dean sighs and turns back to face Castiel. "You're just going to stand there aren't you?"

"Yes."

"Dude, seriously?"

"I trust you to do it right," Castiel says, with all the faith of the gently deluded.

"I don't trust me to do it right, you're insane. You know that, right?"

Castiel doesn't move, he doesn't even look worried. Dean's damn sure he'd look worried if he was in his position. Only he wouldn't be in that position, because he's not an idiot.

"I thought last time you said I shouldn't mess with this thing too often?"

"I can replace the energy you lose performing it."

"That's not the point, I'm not happy about throwing you out on your ass okay." It seems unfair somehow, though Dean's not exactly sure how to explain it better. He wipes the edge of his hand on his jeans, leaving a red smear. But, hell with it, there's already chalk all over the back of his jeans and he's not quite sure when that happened but he doesn't have a chance of brushing it off because his hands are already grey-white. He tries anyway though, leaving streaks and stripes and puffs of dusty air. "Besides I wouldn't -" Dean looks up across the room.

But Castiel isn't by the far wall any more, he's right inside Dean's personal space, a blur of movement and blunt surprise and one freezing cold hand is wrapped round his throat. Dean catches the sleeve of Castiel's coat, the fine curve of his wrist, adrenaline overruling surprise and demanding he fight for his life, but it's like trying to shift marble.

Castiel slams him into the wall so hard his head rings and _holds him there._

Dean's boot heels hit the wall, strung up by his throat, kicking dust off the stone and getting absolutely nowhere while every muscle in his body _screams_. He turns his head and finds the back of Castiel's hand, pushing hard against his throat. He's an inch away from fucking choking, one more millimetre and there'll be no air at all

Castiel is looking at him like he's _nothing_ , like he doesn't matter at all.

And then -

\- he's falling.

Dean hits the floor in a heap, dragging in air and forcing his legs underneath him, but when he goes to get up he's shoved over by a coughing fit instead. He gets a fist full of Castiel's trench coat and just holds it while he coughs the ache in his throat out.

"Jesus - you made your point ok, seriously," he waves an irritated hand and yanks the collar of his t-shirt away from his neck.

Cas ignores Dean's out-flung hand and gently folds his own round his shoulder, eases him back to his feet. His expression's a twisted mixture of apology and guilt. Fingers so close to his neck, and they're no longer cold and rigid. They move, as if to touch the raw ache - to fix it.

"Dean, I'm sorry -"

Dean smacks his hand away.

"I get it - believe me I get it - I don't need to forget how strong you guys are."

"I could have made my point less aggressively."

Dean's never heard Cas chastising himself so fiercely before.

"Aggressive is good, it reminds me not to make the same mistake twice."

Dean slams his hand into the wall.

Castiel flinches, outlined for a second in white light, and then he's gone.

Dean's surprised to find he doesn't feel good about it in the slightest. The basement's a lot colder and emptier than it was before. Dean thinks about it for half a second, then heads up the basement stairs. The house is empty as well, but not like no one lives here. It's like whoever lived here stepped out unexpectedly, or went on vacation. There's still power, the faucets still run clear. There's nothing to suggest they died here. But Dean knows better. He knows that people can die anywhere, and sometimes it's not showy and violent, sometimes it's quiet and quick and unexpected.

He wanders into the kitchen. There are dishes in the sink, towels on the table, rumpled clothes in a basket in the corner. Stuff these people weren't ever going to come back to. He wonders if they imagined that one day there'd be a stranger in their nice house learning angel magic.

Someone spilled something on one of the counters and now there's just a sticky stain, which is weirdly jarring. That no one came back to wipe it up, no one will. Dean opens the fridge, just because it's there, takes a breath and reaches inside.

"Well I'll be damned." The beer's plentiful and cold. "I don't think you're going to need this any more, but thanks anyway."

He drinks it at the sink, staring out the window at what four in the morning looks like. Him and four in the morning, they know each other too damn well. When he finishes it he leaves the bottle on the side.

"Screw it," he says finally and heads back down the basement stairs.

He finds the chalk that scattered by the first symbol, goes down on one knee and uses the bottom of his t-shirt to rub it out, then picks up a fresh stick. He redraws the angel ward, bigger than before, smooth, clean, sharp lines, symmetry measured out with the other sticks of chalk, drawn over and over. He draws it like he means it, like it's not going to be Cas coming back. It's going to be someone he wants to keep out. Any one of the smarmy fuckers they'd faced before. Michael, Lucifer, Raphael, Zachariah. He makes every damn line of it as perfect as he can.

Then he rests his back against the cold wall, and he waits.

  
~~~~~

  
The first thing Dean hears is the slide-creak of the door opening upstairs. He tips his head forward away from the wall and tries his damnedest to look completely innocent. There's the sound of steps heading towards the basement, then the drift and sway of tan fabric over his head.

"Hey, Cas."

Castiel comes to a very abrupt stop at the bottom, surveys Dean's second attempt at an anti-angel ward. This time there's a pointed and noticeable expression on his face. He's surprised, he's honestly surprised.

Dean presses back against the wall, pushes himself to his feet.

Castiel raises his head to look at him. He looks impressed, Dean has officially impressed an angel, yeah, there's not a chance in hell he's not going to be smug about that. He grins at Castiel, folds his arms and nods pointedly at the symbol.

"I see you practised while I was gone," Castiel says quietly. Dean's honestly never seen Castiel's face like that before. For a handful of seconds the seriousness is pushed down under an expression which is genuine. Quiet amusement and pride and something soft. Like Dean's done something amazing. Like maybe he _is_ something amazing?

Dean shakes the thought away and laughs. "Come on then. Lets see you cross it."

Oh, and that gets him the funniest expression yet. Because now Castiel's wearing his 'you honestly think you can hope to challenge an angel?' face. Dean throws back his 'hell yeah,' face in return.

"You want me to rub it out?"

"That won't be necessary." Castiel's angelic bitchface is a thing of beauty. Dean can't help grinning at it, mouth stretching out in a way that doesn't feel half as familiar as it used to. He doesn’t think he's had the chance to grin that this for a while.

Castiel's still frowning though, like he's debating whether to smash Dean's magic apart or let his ego enjoy the moment. Dean decides to let him off, he stretches a hand out without even thinking about it. Castiel tips his head to the side, eyebrows raised slightly. There's an expression on his face that Dean can't even hope to fathom. After a pause Castiel lifts his own hand, catches Dean's fingers. He's just a fraction too cold, almost a little too firm when he grips. Then he walks through the ward like it isn't even there.

"I just did something then that I didn't get at all, didn't I?" Dean says, looking down to where Castiel's coat flickers and sways above the carefully drawn symbols.

"Yes, you did." Cas doesn't elaborate but his voice is soft, warm, like Dean's surprised him again. In a way he didn't expect.

"Seriously, are you going to tell me?"

"You didn't just extend your hand then," Castiel says quietly.

"Okay, that just sounds filthy."

"It was very surprising," Castiel admits.

"And that's how you got through the ward?"

"I didn't," Castiel says. "You were on the other side and then so was I."

"Yeah, that makes so much sense. So, other angels, can they do it that way?"

"It would be very difficult without an invitation, especially once the spell is properly drawn out in blood." Castiel pauses. "And I do not believe they would try it, attempting that by force would be...unsettling."

Dean looks down, at the firm, bright lines he'd laid and overlaid underneath Castiel's shoes.

"So why did you end up in here?"

"Because you wanted me here," Castiel says quietly, and there's something there that sounds like 'thank you' and Dean doesn’t understand that at all.

"So that's how you could get through - inside, whatever. What about Raphael?"

"Raphael is an Archangel," Castiel reminds him. "And he still wishes to do you harm. He hasn't forgiven you for averting the apocalypse."

"Yeah, got that part."

Castiel doesn't look away. But Dean knows him well enough to know that's his special angel way of calling Dean an idiot without actually saying anything. "He knows everything I know."

"Everything?" Dean asks through a frown, but Cas is already nodding slowly.

"Yes, everything and much more, which was a large part of my decision to share so much with you." The words are flat, there's barely any tone behind them at all, but Dean feels somehow like he's been chastised for not getting it, again. He's starting to really hate that.

"So, is there some way to stop the banishment from working? Say, the bad guys decide to get you out of the picture and draw one of these themselves." Dean's fingers stretch up, stab just outside the outline of the design and he doesn't miss the way Castiel almost seems to brace himself. "Is there some way we could stop you from leaving?"

Castiel's quiet for longer than the question seems to demand. Dean figures this is another one of those times where he's missing something, and yeah, he loves those too.

"There are a few ways to prevent banishment," Cas says eventually, cautiously.

"Now why do I think the tone you're using there is not a good one."

"Some of them are...unpleasant."

"You say that word a lot and I think you've got a serious problem with understatement. Are we talking excruciatingly painful here?"

"Not necessarily painful, not how you mean -" Castiel stops. "It's difficult to explain."

Dean waits but Cas doesn't offer any actual attempt at an explanation, and he doesn't know whether he should push or just leave it. Whether they should go at the pace Castiel clearly wants to, or whether he should try and steer him towards what he thought would be useful.

"Dude, if we're going to need your help, we _cannot_ have you thrown out of the ring when it counts."

This time Castiel is quiet for so long Dean's half afraid he isn't going to talk again.

Until he sighs, blinks slowly.

"Very well," Castiel says simply. "I'll teach you how to work around the banishment. Another time though, when you have a better understanding." His expression is briefly tight and unhappy, but there's something tired underneath, something that looks strangely vulnerable. But then it's gone, and Castiel's face is perfectly blank again.

  
~~~

  
Dean's out of bed fifteen minutes when he notices there's no mark on his hand.

He remembers cutting into the length of his finger, he remembers it stinging when he'd dragged his jeans off after getting back just as it was turning light. But now there's nothing there, nothing at all.

"Thanks Cas," he mutters under his breath, and fishes his boots out from under the bed. One of them has a broken lace, and he's fairly sure he remembers that happening when he was scrabbling around on the floor drawing chalk symbols, his jeans have left a halo of white on the carpet to prove it. Sam's missing, but Dean's fairly sure it was his turn to get breakfast, at least he hopes it was. Mostly because he's hungry as hell. He drags his bag onto his lap because he knows damn sure he's got another lace in there somewhere.

Sure enough when Sam comes back it's with bags that promise tasty goodness and they're rustling out food smells in Sam's huge hands, which isn't helping Dean's concentration one bit. The brown bag gets dumped on the bed and Dean sternly tells his stomach that he's lacing up his boot first. Eating breakfast wearing one boot is bad manners.

"So where'd you go last night?" The words from Sam are careful, quiet. Maybe he's considering how often he'd disappeared without a word or an explanation. Not even when Dean demanded one, especially not when Dean demanded one. He thinks Sam's trying to _not_ be a soulless douchebag, but Dean's always aware, somewhere on the edge that that's exactly what he's doing, pretending. Though he's currently doing a pretty good job of expecting the question to be thrown back in his face.

Dean stops halfway through tugging the broken lace out of his boot. He's tempted, he's really tempted to tell him it's none of his business. He's fairly sure it wouldn't make him feel any better, wouldn't make anything better. But he can't help but feel like Sam deserves a little of it. That feeling like he's not important, like there are things he doesn't get to know. Because that feeling ate Dean up for so long. It's not kind, it's vicious and bitter, and completely human, and he wants to give in to it. But Dean's afraid that if they start down that road again they might never stop. It's easy enough for things to become routine, and he knows it would be too easy to slip into a never-ending push of guilt, apology, anger and secrets again. He doesn't want to fight with Sam - or he does, but not like this, not while he's like this. And not really when they eventually find his soul, dragged out by inches until they're both raw all the way through. He just wants all that shit to stop.

"I was out with Cas," Dean says quietly. He pulls the lace out all the way, then threads the new one through two holes before continuing. "Talking about what sort of tricks the angels might pull, some things to maybe give us a leg up against some of the monsters that are popping out of the woodwork. He's teaching me some things."

Dean hears Sam breathe out, hears the soft tread of his shoes on the carpet.

"That's good, I mean - yeah, it's good." He stops and there's a strange unfinished quality to his silence, like he's trying to think of something to say now. Trying to find some question to ask that doesn't press on any of their current issues. Trying to be _brotherly_ when he's missing all the important parts. Dean really doesn’t think it's a good idea when it's all still only a few inches deep, and that's not a grave that's holding anything that doesn't want to stay dead. Maybe it means something that Sam's still trying. He doesn’t have to, he doesn’t even feel it, he's admitted all that. But he's still trying, that has to count for something.

Dean lets it drag on for a second longer before deciding to cut Sam a break before he has an aneurysm looking for exactly the right thing to say. He points his boot at Sam's laptop. "Anything we should be looking at?"

Sam nods, clearly grateful for the obvious change of subject. "Yeah, I found a couple of things which we might be able to do something about."

Dean tries to decide if anyone will notice the fact that he has one black lace and one blue lace. Most people barely notice their own shoes, let alone other people's.

Sam's still talking. "About three hundred miles from here there's a hotel, twenty people have thrown themselves off of the balconies in fifty years."

The odds of it just being a really, really depressing hotel are probably slim. If by some miracle Dean survives this most recent mess their lives have become he's going on vacation. Though knowing his luck the creepy shit will probably just follow him. The creepy shit always follows them. He opens the bag Sam left on the table, pulls out the burger that looks significantly bigger than the other one.

"What else?"

Sam taps a key and another window slides into view.

"Five people missing from a small town six hundred miles West, an eyewitness says, and I quote, that the woman who took them 'crawled out of a well.'"

Dean stops unwrapping his burger. "Oh, like that never ends badly." Because really, really?

"Yeah, I'm really not enthusiastic for that one," Sam says flatly.

He clicks a key again.

"Lake turns to blood -"

Dean snorts inelegantly.

"Yeah, I know," Sam agrees. "Honestly, though it doesn't look like anything else is happening. That one could be natural. Also, there's a lot of press coverage on that story."

"So we give the big lake of blood a miss -" Dean takes a bite, chews just enough that he can form words, "- at least while it's not doing anything threatening."

"I'd imagine being a 'big lake full of blood' would freak people out enough." Sam says it in a way that sounds just like his old self, and Dean doesn't know if that's practice or if there's a basic conversational version of Sam. If he in some way has factory settings - and yeah, that's a shitty way to think of it. He wonders if this is the only Sam he's going to get for a while, for maybe a long while. He wonders if he can live with that.

Dean swallows and grunts affirmation. "Still it's better than sitting on our asses watching TV. Pick one, Sam, you have a quarter of a burger and -" Dean counts "- seventeen fries to decide."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "I haven't eaten yet."

"A quarter of a burger and nine fries," Dean says with his mouth full.

  
~~~

  
The walls of the basement in the empty house end up laid and overlaid with sigils and spells. Some of them variations of the ones that came before, changed so that Dean can use them on the fly if necessary. Some are chalk white, some are in paint, some are the old browning colour of blood - Dean's and Castiel's.

They're currently both sat against the wall. Castiel's shoes are covered in chalk and there's a slice across the back of Dean's hand from where he put it too close to Castiel's latest demonstration.

"There are certain rules that angels have to follow when inside a vessel. An angel in a vessel is...diminished, it has to follow rules because it forces itself to be physical, to be mutable. Flesh is very-"

"So help me if you say weak I'm gonna hit you." Dean points the neck of his beer bottle at him.

"Unwieldy," Castiel settles on.

"So if I came across an angel outside a vessel, this all means nothing?" Dean waves a hand to indicate pretty much everything they've been doing here.

"Yes."

"So what should I do then?" he asks.

"You should hope that doesn't happen. You could never hope to stand against the true form of an angel." Castiel gives him serious eyes from very close indeed.

"You're my own personal ray of sunshine, you know that."

"I do understand sarcasm," Castiel tells him.

"Yes, you do, but it's still funny." Dean grins at him and Castiel makes a soft noise of familiarity which for all the world is taking on an edge of quietly exasperated.

"So, is there some sort of magic for angels when they don't have bodies?"

"Yes, though you would not be able to see it, speak it, or comprehend it."

Dean laughs, tilts his beer up until it runs into his mouth, he doesn't stop swallowing until the bottle's half empty.

"So why do you even put on a human suit then. If you're so much more powerful without it? I can't see how that works out. I mean I think you lost the right to play the 'you're special and we don't want to hurt you' card when you started plan A: Apocalypse!"

"You are special, and I'm certain now that your destruction was not our Father's plan."

"You're certain?" Dean says, then snorts quietly. He can't help the mockery, or the disbelief.

"Yes," Castiel says with no hint of doubt, and no offence at Dean's dubious disbelief or mockery.

"I hope you're right." Dean's bottle's empty, and the fridge is too far away, so he sets it down by his boot. "You were going to show me how to bind an angel to its vessel."

Castiel turns his face long enough to give him a stern look.

"I told you it could be done. Though the effect would only be temporary if you managed it at all, and would likely leave you considerably weakened."

"But they'd, in effect, be stuck with human limitations. You could punch one and it'd go down?"

Castiel seems to think that question's worthy of an eyebrow lift.

"Briefly," he says. "And it couldn't be killed that way. Destroying the body would simply release them from the binding."

Dean fiddles with the neck of his empty bottle, shakes his head. "It doesn't sound like it'd be fun for them though."

Castiel's mouth goes tight and thin, suggesting that 'not fun' is another understatement. Dean is going to buy him a dictionary so he can learn more words. Or possibly a word of the day calendar.

"It's not. But it could be immensely useful to you."

Dean shakes his head. "It doesn't sound like the sort of thing I want to practice on you, dude."

"I would let you do whatever you needed. You know that."

It's said in such a fucking throwaway tone of voice and Castiel's not even looking at him. It's like he doesn’t understand - but Dean knows that's bullshit, Castiel understands a hell of a lot more than he used to.

Dean knows he's fucked up in the past. He knows he's abused Castiel's friendship, taken more than he should have done, as much as Castiel had had more than once. He shouldn't be allowed to have that any more. Castiel shouldn't let him fill some sort of space where he gets to just _do shit_ like that if he needs to. It isn't right and isn't fair.

But Castiel still _gives_. Which makes Dean angry in a way he knows it shouldn't.

"Sometimes I wish you wouldn't you know. Sometimes I need people to tell me no, to tell me to go fuck myself."

"Yes," Castiel agrees. "But now isn't one of those times."

Dean can't for the life of him think of anything to say to that. He shifts on the floor, winces when the cut on the back of his hand pulls opens, blood beading at the ends. He settles it on his own knee, glares at it, making a fist and leaving the wound to stretch unpleasantly.

Castiel catches hold of his wrist, turns the back of his hand so he can see the damage himself.

"I should know better with the hasty spellcasting by now, huh?" Dean says

Castiel presses his thumb gently against the cut. It's one quick sting of pain, and then it's gone. There isn't even a smear of blood left on his skin.

He doesn't let go - and Dean can't quite pull his hand away. There's a strange sort of expectation in the careful stillness of Castiel's fingers.

"To keep me here, to work around the banishing. It would involve a level of intimacy you wouldn't be comfortable with." Castiel's hand is oddly gentle on his. Like Dean is something important and breakable. It should make him uncomfortable, at the very least. But there's something that's quiet and apologetic about it. Anyone else, he'd pull his hand away, anyone else he'd say no straight away, step back, shut down.

Everything with Castiel has always been harder than that. Whether he likes it or not, they do have a bond, weird and fucking ridiculous as that sounds every time someone says it out loud. It's one that goes both ways. But the feelings on Castiel's side aren't the same as the ones on Dean's. They're probably a hell of a lot less confused for one thing.

What they do, the things they sacrifice for the cause. They never say 'stop,' they never say 'here is too much, this is too far.' They never admit that there are things they can't do.

"Cas, you know I owe you everything, but I don't - I can't." It's amazing how much you can screw up an explanation when you really need not to.

"I know," Castiel says simply. "It's alright." His hand slides away, leaving Dean's fingers curled against the cold of his jeans, the newly healed skin on the back of his hand strangely sensitive, hair standing on end.

But it's not alright. It can't be, and Dean's done some shitty things but he has no explanation for how this one gnaws at him, like an accusation.

Dean worries that he won't say stop.

  



End file.
